


Toast, Smoke and Brilliance

by thebritishcucumberexpert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebritishcucumberexpert/pseuds/thebritishcucumberexpert





	Toast, Smoke and Brilliance

I woke up late.

Rolling out of bed, I tore around the flat, muttering an inaudible stream of curses under my breath as I collided with various stacks of books or precariously arranged experiments in my quest to find my work clothes. A "whirlwind of chaos", Sarah had often called me in the past.

I heard nothing of Sherlock. I hardly ever did. Of course, when I got back in the evening, I knew he'd be feverishly pacing the living room, his brilliant head whirring with a thousand possible solutions to his latest case, shouting abuse to his skull - but God knows what he got up to in the mornings. He kept to his space, and I kept to mine. And that was fine. 

Absolutely fine.

However, today was different. After having finally located the runaway items of clothing, I finished my breakfast (porridge and fruit, standard doctor food) and opened today's issue of The Telegraph, rustling the pages open to the most interesting looking story, and cleared my throat.

The front door clicked open. I whipped round, heart pounding, wondering for a brief moment if Moriarty had somehow deceived his way into our flat, but I was instead met with a slightly more peculiar and much more alarming sight.

Sherlock stumbled in, barely making it through the door before collapsing onto his knees, breathing heavily. His usually immaculate suit was crumpled and stained with mud, his purple shit torn and ripped, twigs and thorns and dirt clotted in his hair.

"Sherlock, what in God's name...?!" I leaped up, casting the dejected newspaper aside and knocking over my chair with a loud clatter in my haste to reach him. He didn't raise his head but stretched out an arm towards me, and I could make out a faint word spilling from his trembling lips. "F-fine...fine...".

I reached him and gently hooked my arms under his elbows, pulling him up. Although he's a lot slimmer than me, his lanky frame made it awkward to move him - nevertheless, I half carried, half dragged him to his squishy arm chair by the fireplace. He slumped against it's welcoming softness and took three deep, rasping breaths. Looking closer, I could see raw laceration marks around his neck. A bubble of anger swelled up inside me. Someone had clearly done this too him, and for a split second I had the desire to find this person and throttle them until they saw stars behind their eyelids and the delicate skin of their neck was mottled with bruises, a lasting impression of what happens when people touch my Sherlock.

Shit. MY Sherlock?!

Dispelling these distracting thoughts, I threw myself into the chair opposite Sherlock and tried to regain control of my head. Leaning forwards, I placed both elbows on my knees and clasped my hands together in a pathetic attempt to stop them trembling.

"Sherlock, what ha..." The anger was back. I took a deep breath. Tried again. "Sherlock, wha...what happened? Why are you like this?"

No answer. His head was still bowed. After a few painful seconds seconds, he raised his head and revealed the black and blue patterns mapped across his devastating features. I gaped. I felt a hollow sickness somewhere around my midriff, a sickness which fleetingly turned into a blinding fury - I fought the impulse to tear out of my chair and smash the television, the vase, the table...anything. 

"The case, John. Let's just say we're dealing with more than a couple of corrupted, disgruntled diamond traders." He laughed, then winced, an expression of hurt gracing his face, and gingerly raised a hand to his jaw.

I could feel his eyes on me as I gulped down a breath, and hesitantly met his gaze. He had an uncharacteristically sweet smile unfolding on his lips and leaned forwards until our noses were a mere three inches apart. I could see each perfectly sculpted, individual eyelash and the slight crinkles around his eyes that deepened when he found something amusing. I could smell him, his day-old aftershave, the new laundry powder Mrs Hudson had used to wash his shirt and the earthy smell of the soil that was caked around his left eyebrow. 

The sickening feeling was back, but it had a different tone this time. The anger had subsided. The clocked ticked on, marking valuable seconds slipping away. I became aware of my heart pounding at twice it's usual speed, yet i couldn't tear my gaze away from Sherlock's clear, iridescent eyes. The air between us shifted, and suddenly it was alight with emotion and unsaid words. Sherlock inhaled slightly, his gaze slipping down to my slightly parted lips. Still drowning in his inhumanely beautiful eyes, i slowly leaned forwards, giving him time to pull away - but he didn't, and I closed the gap between us.

He tasted like toast, smoke and brilliance. We stayed like that, our lips entwined, for a few delicious seconds, before pulling back. Flushing, i peered nervously at him. He looked remarkably unsurprised, and smirked, regaining some of his old, annoying self.

"Thank you, John."


End file.
